


From Old Tales

by yaseanne



Category: Black Books
Genre: Gen, Lovecraftian, The Necronomicon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:15:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2576162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaseanne/pseuds/yaseanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the back of the shop, on a dusty shelf, there is a book whose spine bears the word <i>Necronomicon</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Old Tales

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the brilliant Adaptation Decay.
> 
> Posted on the meme [here](http://moetushie.dreamwidth.org/312836.html?thread=1480708).

"What's this then?" asked Manny when he noticed it during his biannual dusting. It was a big, leather-bound copy and he wondered how he'd never noticed it before. He squinted at the title, embossed on the back in silver, then took a step back and the book seemed to fade into the background, scuffed grey leather seamlessly vanishing in a vague dust-coloured spot between Carlisle Higgins' _Slender-Billed Curlew - Extinct Species of Siberia_ and the corner of the shelf. Bernard's customary "Don't touch it!" was nearly drowned out by Manny’s sheer curiosity. He gave the spine a cautious tap with the feather duster. Nothing happened.

"The _Necronomicon_ , really?" he asked. "I can't believe people still buy that rubbish."

"Rubbish, sure." Bernard shifted nervously in his chair. "George Hay edition, complete hoax, don't worry about it."

 

He didn't dwell on it; he certainly didn't dream about it. In fact, Manny would have completely forgotten about the dust-covered volume if he hadn't ducked into the kitchen to make tea a month later and overheard Bernard complaining to Fran.

"We need to get rid of it."

"We?" Fran replied. "As far as I remember, you were the one who found it. In _your_ shop. Your _book_ shop."

There was a sound of rustling paper, and Manny imagined Bernard gesticulating wildly.

"And you were the one who had to have a closer look at it! It's taken another Dickens, it's a hazard. I can't keep it here."

After a contemplative pause, Fran said brightly, " _The Old Curiosity Shop_?"

A huff, then: " _The Uncommercial Traveller_ ," Bernard replied. "That's beside the point, though. I can't have this thing in my shop."

"Sell it online," Fran said, and Bernard's loud "Are you out of your mind?" scared Manny into dropping his cup.

"What the hell are you doing back there?"

 

Over the next couple of weeks, Manny paid careful attention to the inventory. He was not entirely sure what 'taking a Dickens' meant, but it sounded far too ominous. For a while, nothing unusual happened, and he was lulled into a sense of security, an age-old I Guess It Was Nothing After All, Silly Me that blanketed his mind with comfortable visions of neatly numbered anthologies and historical novels bound in calf. There was a spot of excitement when the summer novels came out and he could convince Bernard to stock a new bestseller, despite protestations over giggling in the stacks and cultural decline.

It was an evening in the last week in August when it happened. His perusal of the inventory was mostly routine by now, so it took his mind a moment to process it. There was an empty space on a back shelf where there shouldn't have been one. It was a _Voices of the 17th Century_ -shaped space, and it was right next to the unremarkable, worn-down copy of Hay's _Necronomicon_. It sent a shiver down Manny's spine.

Suddenly, the cozy shop with its soft yellow lights and musty smell had become something alien and fearsome, and an event that would have usually caused mild annoyance - the apparent theft of a book - chilled him to the core. He retreated very carefully to the kitchen, leaving the lights on in the shop. He did not sleep that night.

The next day, he caught himself several times glancing at the spot out of the corner of his eye. By midday, he decided to risk it.

"It's taken another book," Manny said, and watched as Bernard froze, cigarette halfway to his mouth, and paled. Then he jerked and pointedly looked away.

"Don't know what you mean," he said shortly.

"I'm not sure what I mean, either," Manny confessed, "but whatever it is that's going on, it's taken another book."

Bernard stubbed out his cigarette. "Which one," he asked quietly.

" _Voices of_ -" Bernard didn't let him finish the sentence.

"Yes, yes, the one on the third shelf, right? Good."

Manny's eyes nearly popped out at that. "Good? Something's stealing books and that's good?"

"Well it's better than giving it something valuable," Bernard said defensively. "Or nothing. That's even worse."

"I think you owe me an explanation," said Manny and overrode any protest with a sharp, "I do work here."

"Fine," Bernard acquiesced. "But we'll need more wine. And I'm not doing this without Fran."

 

When Fran arrived, she looked grim. She also stuck out her hand and said, "You owe me five quid."

There was a grumble from Bernard, who paid up. Manny still felt as if he had stepped into a different universe. "You bet on which book it - he - it would take?"

"No, we bet on when you'd find out," said Fran. "And Bernard picked 'never'."

Bernard poured them wine, which Manny gratefully accepted, and locked the door.

"So, that - book," Bernard gestured vaguely to the left, encompassing several shelves. "You know which one I'm talking about."

"Hay's _Necronomicon_." Manny nodded.

"Yes. No. Yes." Bernard took several gulps of wine. "It's not Hay's edition. At least I don't think it is, it's not like I checked closely."

Manny scoffed. "You know that the _Necronomicon_ isn't real, right? It's fiction?" Then he paused. "Wait, you've never read it?"

"Go on then." Bernard flapped his hand. "Go on, open it." There was an almost manic gleam in his eyes.

Manny approached the shelf with trepidation, his mind caught in a tug-of-war between laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation and quiet dread. The few steps seemed to take forever, and when he finally reached out, fingertips trembling before the book's spine, he laughed nervously. When he turned around to speak though, Bernard and Fran were watching him with unusual intensity.

"It's just a book." Even to his ears, it sounded unconvincing.

"It's a book that eats books," Fran corrected him. Her fingers were clenched around the stem of her glass. "It's a book that Bernard just found one day-"

"Opening day," Bernard interrupted her. Manny slowly made his way back to the desk. "That was-" he mentally counted "- ten years ago. Bloody hell. Anyway, I had three shelves, not even a chair, a few crates from the thrift shop and I was pissed as a fart. And when I went to put the first book on a shelf, that one was already there." The shop was quiet, even the noise of busy shoppers on the street sounded muffled.

"I opened it. Just once." Bernard's eyes were glazed. "Three pages in I felt this tickle on the back of my neck. So I did the sensible thing." Manny shuffled closer. "Put it away and drank 'til I forgot."

"What's in it?" Manny asked quietly. Bernard shook his head.

"I couldn't read it. A few pictures that I barely remember. I just didn't feel right."

"And it eats books." The statement seemed absurd to Manny even as he was saying it.

"Well that's her fault." Bernard looked pointedly at Fran, who immediately retorted, "You don't know that!" She took a sip. "I just had a quick look, I barely even touched it. Not really."

"You stroked it." Bernard's tone was accusatory. "You had a good laugh too, _oooh, I bet there's all sorts of spooky stuff in this_." He set his glass down with forceful _clang_. "And now look where we are, it's eating my shop."

Manny coughed. "How many books has it eaten, then?"

"It was just a few at first," said Bernard. "I didn't even notice, stuff was disappearing and reappearing all the time. It was just after you turned up that it became a bit obvious."

"The answer's sixteen by the way," Fran interjected. "That we know of. And it's gotten, uh, hungrier."

Bernard nodded. "The Dickens was just three weeks ago. We've got to get rid of it. I've tried selling it, of course, but I don't like people in the shop anyway, and the book really doesn't like anyone near it." They eyed it uneasily.

In the end, Manny took the glasses to wash up, Fran unlocked the shop and they decided to settle the matter of how to dispose of the book another day.

 

Another day, though, was never _today_. The summer bestseller sales slowly dropped, the sky turned grey, and Bernard kicked the radiator into submission until even the family of mice in the ceiling could enjoy the warmth. The matter of the book was not brought up again, and when the occasional unsellable paperback disappeared, only an uncomfortable quiet marked the event.

It was two months later when Bernard suddenly said, in a rather conversational tone, "It's looking at me." Manny had closed the shop for the day and was looking forward to his bed and his latest romance novel. At the words he looked up. Bernard was perched on his seat, staring intently at the shelf.

"Are you sure?" It seemed like a strange question, but this was a world where books apparently ate books. Anything could happen.

"Come over here," said Bernard, motioning Manny closer without taking his eyes off the offending item. Walking over was a disquieting experience; despite the silence that on any other day Manny would have counted as a blessing, he thought he heard rustling - or rather, he had the sudden feeling that there ought to be rustling, shuffling, the rasp of compressed wood pulp, dried with age. His own breathing was loud when he stood next to Bernard, and, following his gaze, watched the shelf vanish into the wall.

Bernard whimpered.

_There wasn't even any sound_ , Manny thought wildly. Then he thought, _We're going to die_.

From the place where the shelf had stood against the wall came a low groaning. Manny took a step back and tugged at Bernard's jacket. Together, they stumbled backwards, and Manny risked a glance at the entrance to the flat. There - a flash - a light fixture had disappeared. The groaning was swelling in volume, a deep, impossibly hungry sound that filled the room, along with the scent of salt and smoke.

Desperately, he turned towards the shop entrance and started to walk, when the ground beneath him tilted upwards. Another light went out overhead, the remaining bulbs painting shadows against the walls that moved and squirmed under Manny's gaze. At his side, Bernard was backing against the political memoirs shelf. His hands picked and tugged at the books' spines.

"Here, take this!" he shouted. Manny had a second to read the author's name before Bernard threw the book into the wall, where it was swallowed by the shadows. There was a rush of air blowing in their faces, a foetid dank scent that made Manny choke.

"Take Churchill!" Bernard continued, undaunted. "Not me! I mean, not us!" And another book flew through the air. Again a gust came from the shadows, but the rumbling subsided. Emboldened, Manny grasped the nearest volume - _You Too Can Be A Prince!_ \- and launched it. They fed the entirety of the shelf to the darkness, one by one, until the ground became steady and at last, the lights popped back out of the wall. Finally, with a shudder and a mournful sound, the shelf that housed the book emerged from the shadows, _Breaking the Code - The Westminster Diaries_ hitting the boards with a _thud_.

Manny looked at Bernard. Bernard looked at Manny. Neither dared to speak. Manny took stock of himself, and, reassured that he was still in one piece, mustered the courage to step into the room.

The doorbell rang. Manny froze.

Neither he nor Bernard moved and he prayed, quietly, to the gods of old shopkeepers.

After a while, there was a knocking. And then, as if it was a bright afternoon and nothing special had occurred, a clear voice said, "Are you closed?"

Manny shared a helpless look with Bernard.

"I'm looking for a very specific book. I assure you, it won't take long."

"Go away!" shouted Bernard, at the same time as Manny walked to unlock the door, to let anything resembling normalcy in. "No! Wait!"

But the door was already open. A young man nodded politely at Manny. He was pale, though not unnaturally so, and blue-eyed and dressed impeccably in black.

"Thank you," he said and entered. "Now then." He strode determinedly towards the shelf at the back of the shop, as if he not only knew what he wanted but, impossibly, also where it was. In a swift motion, he picked the dust-coloured copy of the _Necronomicon_ off the shelf.

"Who are you?" Manny asked, and immediately looked horrified at his audacity.

The gentleman smiled. "My name is Doctor Allen." He turned towards the door. "I'm just visiting. Thank you, young man."

"That'll be twenty pounds, sir," said Manny. There was a tense moment where the gentleman stared at Manny and Manny stared at the lintel over the gentleman's shoulder. Behind him, he could hear Bernard make soft noises of distress.

"Of course," the gentleman finally said. He took a handful of bank notes from his coat pocket, and, without counting, placed them on the desk. Then he nodded once more and stepped through the door.

"I," began Manny, at the same time as Bernard said, "We are never speaking about this." He paused. "And now we're going to get very, very drunk."


End file.
